“Every man could learn a few things from romance novels,” I say firmly. “Why more men don’t take advantage of what are essentially instruction manuals for women is beyond me, though I suppose that’s a conversation for another day.”
He cants his head as if to say Touché. “So what do you think is holding you back? From writing, I mean.”
Now I’m the one who wants to change the subject. “Oh, you know, the usual suspects: Fear of failure. Unrealistic expectations. Perfectionism. Inadequacy. Self-doubt.”
“Just those, huh?” he teases.
I think of how to explain it. “Writing a two-hundred-word article is simple for me. I do it every day—multiple times a day, actually. Easy-peasy. But writing an entire book? Coming up with a plot that’ll hold someone’s attention for a hundred thousand words? Creating a story that’s memorable, that will resonate, that someone will love so much it’ll become their favorite book? It’s incredibly daunting. It’s such a high bar to clear.”
“And if you don’t try, then you can’t fail,” he says pragmatically.
“Exactly.” It takes me a second to hear what he actually said. “Wait, no.”
He chuckles, his eyes twinkling like he’s pulled the sparkle straight from the stars overhead.
“You think I’m too scared to do it,” I say accusingly. How dare he . . . peg me so accurately? Damnit.
He throws me a sideways grin. “Are you?”
“Of course I’m not scared!” How insulting. I huff like a marathoner on their last mile. “I’m just . . . taking my time figuring things out.”
He presses his lips together and nods seriously.
“You know what, I’m not falling for whatever this reverse psychology is you’re using on me, Mr. Smooth Talker. You can just forget I ever said anything.” Greg and Christine are dead to me for bringing this up to begin with. “And how did this even get turned around on me, anyway? I was the one asking you uncomfortable questions.”
The surge of righteous adrenaline puts some extra spring in my step, and I end up striding ahead of him—only for him to grab me by the crook of the elbow, haul me away from the curb, and shift me to his other side, depositing me on the inside of the sidewalk.
I gape at him, but he keeps right on walking as if nothing at all just happened. “Ahem? What was that?”
“What was what?” He’s the picture of innocence.
“You just moved me to the other side of the sidewalk.”
“Did I? Hmm. S’pose I did.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. “And why did you do that?”
His shrug is blasé. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?” I make a show of looking around the quiet, mostly empty street. “Is Pennywise going to climb out of the drain and drag me into the sewer?”
He clamps down on his smile like he really doesn’t want to admit he’s amused by me. “Women aren’t supposed to walk next to the street.”
Now that perks my ears right up. “And why’s that?”
He opens his mouth, then hesitates, tilting his head. “You know what? I’m not actually sure. It’s just one of those things I’ve been raised to know, like how to throw a spiral or drive a stick. A man should never let a woman walk next to the street.” He shrugs like, Sorry, I don’t make the rules.
“You know that if a car hopped the curb, it’d be just as likely to take me out if I’m only three inches to your right.”
He considers that. “But if it was raining and a car drove through a puddle, I’d be the one to get splashed, not you.” He looks quite pleased with his loophole.
“Maybe I like to walk on the wild side.”
“Sorry, not on my watch.” He splays his palms as if to say, It’s out of my hands.
“So what would you do if I, say . . . entered a crosswalk before the light’s changed?”
“Pull you back by the scruff of your neck,” he replies without missing a beat, and I crack up.
I haven’t been paying attention to where we’ve been walking, but all that changes when the quiet street we’ve been meandering down spits us out into the belly of the beast: the blinking neon screens and blinding strobe lights of Times Square.
I immediately throw my forearm up to shield my eyes and search for an escape. “Get thee to a subway.”
He stops me before I can flee, catching me by the hip. Heat spreads through me, his hand like a brand.
“Let’s keep walking,” he says casually, and my blood pressure spikes. “It’ll be fun.”
I peer at him like he’s just suggested we stroll through a deserted cornfield in a slasher movie. “Are you serious? What self-respecting New Yorker actually chooses to hang out in Times Square?”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? It’s one giant epileptic trigger!”
He smirks like a mischievous teenager out past curfew. “You have to admit, the people-watching can’t be beat. Who needs Broadway when Times Square is right there? I’m telling you, this is the real show.”
Somewhere, a piece of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s soul dies. “I know you did not just compare Times Square to Broadway. That is beyond sacrilege.”
He chuckles, the low, velvety sound dancing across my skin.
“You seem to be experiencing some confusion. You must’ve had too many drinks at dinner. Are you unwell?” I reach up to feel his forehead with the back of my hand. “I think we may need to get you home.” And I can regroup and figure out where to go from here.
He snags my wrist. “Or maybe,” he says, his voice distinctly rougher, “I’m just not ready for the night to be over.”
I flush, a mixture of fear and flattery spiking my blood. It’s a confusing combination. “Oh.”
“Unless you’re trying to get rid of me.” His eyes search mine with interest.
What I’m trying to do is pretend not to notice how your hand feels pressed against my skin.
“No!” Yes. “Not at all.” Gah. How am I going to tap-dance my way out of this one?
You’re not, Betty pipes up. Accept every invitation with gratitude. Let him be the decision-maker!
So I paste on my own second-date perma-grin, link my arm through his, and let him lead me out into the intersection of Bright & Brighter, accepting my soon-to-be-damaged retinas as the price I pay for a story.
To prove I’m a good sport, I start playing tour guide. “You were so right about the unique charm and distinctiveness of Times Square. To our right, you’ll see such esteemed New York landmarks as the Hard Rock Cafe and M&M’s World.” I motion toward the creepily costumed characters milling about aimlessly. “If you want, we could get your picture taken with a few off-brand superheroes or beloved characters like ‘Winnie the Pooch’ or ‘Mikey Mouse.’ They may look a little shifty, but I’m pretty sure they’ve never killed anyone.” I gesture to the restaurant on the opposite side of the street. “Oh! And if you’re still hungry, nothing says ‘only in New York’ like the Olive Garden.”